Hearts of Darkness
by Annex-Writer
Summary: There are repercussions after TDK and as characters old and new go through them some try to keep their hearts from descending into the darkness, while others flourish in it. A kind of sequel while telling a kind of AU BB and TDK in flashbacks. Slash.
1. Prologue The White Rabbit

**Hearts of Darkness**

Prologue - The White Rabbit

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of fictional characters that do not belong to me. All music lyrics used do not belong to me.

* * *

It had been about a month after the capture of the Joker, the death of Harvey Dent and the exile of the Batman.

Jim Gordon was Commissioner of Gotham's police force but he had essentially lost everything.

His wife had asked for a divorce after the incident with Harvey Dent (and his continued association with Batman); wanting to leave Gotham with the kids and change their names.

Jim hadn't tried to fight it because...she was right...He didn't want to put his children in any more danger.

But then he had lost either way. No family to come home to, no "white knight" he could depend on to keep the justice system strong, and no "dark knight" to...No Batman to...just be there...when Jim needed him. Both professionally and...

They had never talked about _that_ part of their relationship - it was something that was almost too primal and raw to put into words...At least that's what Gordon thought based on _those_ kind of encounters...

The other side was a partnership based on a mutual respect and a desire to see Gotham rise above the malignance that had settled into it - so deep it was in the very roots of the streets and subways. They had a desire to make sure that justice was something that was still tangible in Gotham.

He was still surprised that he was able to smash the Bat-signal with as steady a hand as he did...Or with the kind of composure he did. Nobody seemed to notice what it really did to him.

A part of him wondered why he even stayed on the force. Everything seemed so bleak...so hopeless...so pointless.

Crime was only escalating on the streets - even though every now and then he would get "packages" addressed to him - it didn't seem to make much difference.

He would get phone calls of Batman sightings and complaints of citizens saying he wasn't doing his job in capturing him.

That only served to tear at him even more. These calls were like people outright teasing him, taunting him with how they got to see him while Gordon saw nothing and heard nothing.

He would go home and routinely peer into the shadows at night on his back stoop, only to return inside (hours later) with the weight in his chest heavier. Always heavier.

No calls on his cell.

Gordon could never figure out how to call him back, the number was untraceable or never showed up on his phone. As much as the Batman's obvious technological superiority baffled Jim he would have given anything to actually talk to him again.

Jim Gordon could do nothing more than sigh as he reached the door to his (now) empty house. By a lucky chance he was able to go home early tonight. But then that usually meant he would have to pull an all-nighter tomorrow. As cliché as it is, crime never does rest - it just takes a lunch break and then heads back to "work".

Opening the door he knew he would have to force himself to eat tonight. His stomach was always so clenched it was a miracle he ever got any sleep (especially the three to four hours he got at home).

He followed his routine of re-locking all the bolts on his door and checking his answering machine. Again, no messages.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood up on end.

From the darkness, "Good evening, Commissioner Gordon."

He moved fast with his gun but not fast enough. The sound of a silencer and a blow to his neck and chest.

He fell to the floor and felt his body start to numb.

'_Paralyzing darts...,_'he thought as his vision blurred slightly. '_Idiot! You were so damn busy sulking you forgot your basic training!_'

A lamp was turned on and the voice returned, "Now, don't try to spoil my fun, Jimbo."

The voice was feminine but there was something about it...Something that made it disturbing.

He heard footsteps muffled by the carpet. All he could do was stare at the ceiling, moving his eyeballs only made him dizzy.

What did come into his line of vision was more than a little unsettling: a woman, wearing nothing but red and black had white and black make up all over her face. Black around her eyes and mouth, even covering the far sides of her face and ears. Everything else was white. Even what skin he could see was pale. As were her eyes - pale, blue steel staring down at him with a maniacal glee he had only seen in one other person...Except, unlike the Joker, she was emaciated in face and body, making the red leather trench coat she was wearing practically engulf her. Her hair was a sickening bleached color - greasy and stringy and too short to pull off the two small pigtails perched on the top of her head successfully.

"Are you surprised? I know I would be! Especially after facing off with that little pussy "clown prince"!!," she burst out laughing at her own insult. It sounded similar to the Joker but more more demented...if that was even possible...

She suddenly got a thoughtful look on her face, "How do you like my hair? Too much? I think the pigtails make me look cute...I mean, I don't want to be like every other prepy skank on the street!"

"You're just a...pale imi...tation of the...Jok..er!," Gordon was still able to talk, but he knew it was going to be much harder to say anything more.

She gave him an irritated pout, "Well, that's just being rude, Jimmy! I didn't say anything bad about your horribly styled hair! **AND**," she moved to squat over him, one large black boot beside each shoulder and leaned down, "I may be pale but I am **FAR** from being an imitation. If anything, that little bastard copied me!! I'm older than him for God's sake!"

She quickly recovered that demented grin, "D'ya want to know who I am? No? Well I'll tell you anyway; Harley Quinn...medicine woman!!," she launched into hysterical giggles but abruptly stopped. "Hmmm...that sounded much better in my head..."

"In...sane," was all Gordon could get out. His gun was still in his hand but he couldn't even move his finger down on the trigger.

Quinn blinks and then giggles, patting the sides of his face with gloved hands, "Oh, such names you call me! I am not "insane" - I'm just mentally and emotionally unstable, that's all! And, technically, if you want to talk about insanity look at your ex-partner-in-crime! You know what I mean? I mean, it's pretty bad when even the crazies are looking at him and going 'what the fuck?!'," she broke into giggles again.

Gordon couldn't think of anything to get out of this situation - he was virtually alone, he couldn't move and it was getting harder for him to work his vocal cords (why the hell didn't he yell out when he had the chance?). He wondered how the hell he was still able to breathe...All he could really do was...He had no choice but to just...accept what was happening while secretly praying something, anything would happen to turn the tables on this..."woman". He kept his breathing regular in the hopes of keeping the panic running through him under control.

"Speaking of Batsykins, how did your wife take the divorce?," she moved from over him and walked back in the direction she came. When he didn't answer (he refused to and he wasn't sure he could talk even if he wanted) she continued as if he had, "I heard she asked for it. That she wanted to get away from you and your work-dominated marriage. I also heard you didn't really put up much of a fight...That you just _accepted_ it." She came into his line of vision with something under her arm. He knew she was working up something but he couldn't tell what it was exactly. Fabrice being unrolled, metal clinking, busy hands.

'_Her tools, apparently.,_' came the answer as he tried to keep his breathing under control. It was like he was in some dumbass B-grade horror movie...

"What was that?," came the voice again from his left, " "_There was no point in fighting her for the kids or marriage?_" If that's how it was I don't feel half as bad for paying her a little visit..."

Jim couldn't tell if his face showed it but he felt a mixture of rage and panic flood him. His breathing became erratic and a strangled grunt came from his throat. Not Barbara...

"Now - I know what you're thinking. But trust me - you didn't really love her, if you did you would have fought the divorce. You may have _cared _for her because she was the mother of your children but you didn't _love_ her. You haven't loved her for quite a while...Did she know you were seeing another? A man?," the clicking of a gun chamber was recognizable to Gordon.

She came back into his line of vision, giggling to herself, "A **Bat **man perhaps?"

Her brow furrowed and she mumbled, "Damn - that sounded so much better in my head, actually..." She shrugged it off and continued to put bullets into the empty chambers.

"Anyways, as I was saying, caring and loving aren't exactly the same - no matter how strongly you feel about it, Commissioner. I mean, I'm a demented shrew and even I know that!"

Harley clicked the chamber back into place after spinning it some, "You can glare those hateful baby blues at me all you want but that's not gonna change the fact that they are dead."

Jim's heart stopped for a few beats as the words sunk in..."_They_"...his children.

No. _Nononononono..._

His two small children who had done nothing wrong, whom he had not talked to or seen for a month were...gone. A guttural wail came up, struggling past his throat and lips. His body wanted to thrash around violently - mainly to kill this psychotic bitch who had deprived his children a better life out side of Gotham. It hadn't made any difference at all - Gotham's monsters still got them.

The wail came out again as tears came out of his eyes, his eyelids moving lazily. "Oops - you didn't know that...Hmmm, sorry about that. But really, what I did was actually quite merciful."

The rage was too much - it pushed up past his throat and came out as a scream, "Monster!!"

Tears continued to blur his vision but he could see she was surprised, "Wow - that is some weird paralyzing serum...You shouldn't still be able to talk! But in any case, you are very much mistaken. I am no "monster", Mr. Gordon."

She knelt over him again, this time on her knees, straddling him, and her face very close to his. Her eyes suddenly becoming very dark. "I know monsters; **REAL** monsters. I have been at their mercy - or lack thereof. And what I did for your children **was** merciful. To make them live after what they saw me do to their mother, **THAT** would have been monstrous. I didn't draw theirs out, not like hers. She deserved to feel the pain, for it to be drawn out. What kind of mother - who truly loves her children - would let them be born into a world like this? I put them out of their misery and punished her. "

She pulled her face away from his a bit, "So, now it is time for your punishment because you share the blame with your wife. You see, what I plan to do to you is to make you experience a waking nightmare..." She gently starts to stroke his face, removing his glasses as she spoke in a very controlled and calm voice, a whisper almost, "In dreams it is said you can't feel any pain. If you are shot you don't die. But in my little "dream", you will die. You will see me hurt you, shoot you, stab you - but you won't feel it. No, no - instead you will have no choice but to remain completely conscious and to act as witness to what is happening to your body. Completely helpless. It will be my living, breathing nightmare - all for you. The mind can only take so much..." She said the lost part more to herself than to him.

She backed away from his face and sat on his stomach, the trench coat bunching around her as she got an almost thoughtful look on her face. Gordon was surprised at how light she seemed to be...

"In a way, I am an "angel of mercy"...Gotham needs to be cleaned out, and I really am the perfect person for that. Because people who have always known stability take it for granted. I know did. But not no more. Nope, nope. Not no more. Those who don't have it haven't had the opportunity to do that thus know how truly rare it is...How fragile it is. It _means_ more to them. _Worth_ more...,"Jim hated to look into those eyes but he saw something flicker in them that made the timbre of her voice change slightly. "But I'm really just rambling now.," she mumbled.

She stared at him without blinking and then shook her head and tweaked his nose, "You are just too cute!!," in a high pitched voice and slapped him on both cheeks with such force that his head moved from side to side. He didn't feel a thing.

She was off of him and over at his shelves, opening the CD player on his stereo, "Hmm - what kind of music do ya got? I like to listen to some while I...I'd like to say "work" or "perform" but that's just cliché serial killer, don't you think?"

Quinn went down the shelf, gun still in hand, tossing away CDs she didn't like one by one:

"Crap."

"Shit."

"Shit."

"Crap."

"Bullshit."

"Horseshit."

"Complete and utter shit."

"Oh my God!! 'Huey Lewis and the News'?! **LA-AAME**!!," her laughter took on a hysterical edge.

"Celine Dion? _Seriously_?! Oh, Jimbo, you _dirty bird_!," more laughter, "How **CRAPTASTIC**, honey!! You sure your wife didn't know about you "leaning" that way?"

Throwing that one actually broke something. More CDs were tossed carelessly around the room and Gordon forced his mind to take control over his body - to move. Do something. Do something! _Move_! But his mind was getting foggy. His thoughts jumbling, complete hopelessness sinking in fully, and his efforts to make his body move in vain. He knew...he wanted it to end.

"Jefferson Airplane? Showing your age there a bit, aren't ya?," she giggled. But she didn't throw it, "They do have that song on here! Goodie!! What better music to use than what sounds like a constant head-trip? You have slightly redeemed yourself in your taste in music, Commissioner." He could hear the closing of the CD player and buttons being pressed. The guitar strummed through the speakers, then the steady drumming.

"Ah, I **love** this song." Quinn finally removed her coat, revealing a red button-up shirt much too loose on her. Black suspenders keeping her black pants up - much too big on her skeletal frame. She pushed up her sleeves past her elbows, revealing that the shiny black gloves she was wearing extended beyond even where the sleeves stopped. She was singing with the music.

_"One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small."  
_  
She screwed the silencer onto her gun and used it as a microphone, _"And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all. Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall.."  
_  
She slowly started swaying over Gordon, _"And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall."  
_  
His heart was beating fast, too fast. She was enjoying this, drawing it out. He noticed the chains wrapped around her waist as light from the lamp glinted off them as she swung her hips.

_"Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call."  
_  
Those eyes held his, _"Go call Alice, when she was just small."  
_  
She fired - his body jerked up involuntarily from the force. He didn't feel anything. Didn't know where she had fired exactly.

As the music picked up, she fired more shots, _"When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go."_

She changed out her gun for two knives, _"And you've just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low."_

She got down to her knees and moved his legs apart, positioning the knife downward toward the thigh. She sang louder as the music built up more, _"Go ask Alice, I think she'll know."_

She drove the knife into one thigh, then the other, opening the flesh up. Jim still didn't feel anything or know exactly what she was doing. Until she crawled upward and removed the gun from his left hand and waved it front of him, "_When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead." _Then she took one knife and stabbed the hand, sticking it to the floor.

She picked up his right hand and did the same thing with it except stabbed it to a leg of the table where the answering machine was, _"And the white knight is talking backwards."  
_  
_"And the red queens's off with her head.,"_ she dragged a finger across her neck, smearing Gordon's blood along her throat with a gleeful grin spreading across her face.

_"Remember what the dormouse said,"_ she went over to one side and returned twirling a hatchet.

_"Feed your head,"_ practically screaming it. Gordon closed his eyes, he couldn't watch as she hacked at his body.

She forced his eyes open with two fingers covered in his own blood, _"Feed your head!"  
_  
She raised the hatchet and brought it down.

All Jim knew was darkness.

His last thoughts ran together: _I hope Harvey forgives me I'll get to see my kids again I wish I had seen him just once more.  
_  
Then - nothing more.

* * *


	2. Chapter 1 Death and All Her Friends

**Hearts of Darkness**

Chapter One - Death and All Her Friends

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of fictional characters that do not belong to me. Any music lyrics used do not belong to me.

* * *

Walking along the streets later that night, Harley Quinn left in her wake: four dead prostitutes, fifteen slashed tires, two senior citizens with concussions, and three teenagers with their testicles kicked in.

At the moment she was amusing herself in crafting a song called "The 12 Days of Ransacking Gotham" to the tune of "The 12 Days of Christmas." Or was it ten days...or fifteen?

She stopped in the middle of the road, her brow furrowed, trying to remember, but after ten minutes of getting no real answer (and debating with herself quite loudly), she shrugged it off and continued her song with what she had, "_Fiiiiive stolen rooouunds! Four dead prostitutes, three sets of crushed balls, two old prunes_...Hmmm, I don't have a 'one'...," she leaned against a car to think of how she could get her one "item".

"Hey! You freak! Get off o' my car!," a man walking up to her yelled. It was obvious he had money (if his tailored suit and BMW said anything about it), but Harley didn't move.

"Well, that is just being rude my good sir!" The only movement she made was to pull out her gun, still equipped with the silencer she had used earlier that evening, and shoot him in the head. Even she was still impressed by her aim.

"Ahh! My one!" She started singing again, on the verge of laughing, "_Fiiiiive stolen rooouunds! four dead prostitutes, three sets of crushed balls, two old prunes, and one dead yuppie in the streeeeeet!_"

"Oh wait," she kicked the man's limp body a few times until he was on the asphalt, "**NOW** he's in the street."

She continued on her way after pocketing her gun in her coat. She couldn't help wondering if the ambulance had reached Gordon in time.

She had slugged him with the blunt side of the hatchet, which gave him quite a gash from the force behind it, but it really just served to knock him out.

She had cleaned her gloved hands and tools quickly and efficiently and then called 911. She had left the phone off the hook so they would be sure to trace the call to him. She left long before they got there, but she wasn't sure if they had showed up in time...Guess she would hear about it in the morning or on the news later tonight. Although, she didn't like watching it as much ever since Mike Engel was replaced by some boring, monotone broad...

It was really all a race against time from the moment she cut his flesh open and got that blood flowing out. Whether or not they got to him in time was anyone's guess.

But she wasn't going to worry about it anymore because she saw two wonderful adolescent additions to her night time fun.

She spotted a small two-by-four leaning against a trash can on the corner leading to the boys. She casually picked it up as she turned the corner and hid it carefully behind her back.

Two teenage boys - one on a skateboard and one on a bicycle - were going up and down the street throwing beer cans at cars and swatting chains against the windows.

Harley walked to the center of the street and, when the boys spotted her, they pointed and laughed. The one on the bicycle rode out toward her, "Hey, baby, why don't I take you out and show you how to really party?"

She held back a smirk and waited for him to get close enough.

"No thanks, light-weight," she laughed as he arrived beside her. And, with one good shove, she knocked him and his bicycle over.

The other one on the skateboard had the chains and got red in the face as he yelled, "You bitch! Fuckin' Joker wanna-be!"

"What did you say? Come closer - little hard of hearing," one hand pointing to her ears, she began subtly walking faster toward him.

"I said -" the two-by-four she had behind her back was slammed against his head, then his right knee, making it pop out in the other direction.

She then dropped the board, grabbed the boy between the neck and shoulder and with a vice-like grip between his legs she lifted him in one swift motion, slamming him head-first against the hood of the car they were near by.

It was actually quite surprising that she managed to have so much strength despite her light mass...but, then again, what little was on her was muscle.

The boy moaned and cried out while he remained dormant on the car. Harley didn't hesitate in mocking him, "Oh "wah wah!" Did that hurt? Really? Shut up, you little pussy!"

She grabbed the chains he had dropped and tied one of them to the board she had used, now speckled with blood, while singing, "_Don't cry, don't raise your eye - It's only teenage wasteland_!"

Once the chain was secure she started swinging the board in a circular motion in front of her. She looked back at the other boy a little further down the street. He was staring at her in shock, the right side of his face bloody from where he hit the ground. She met his eyes and a huge grin spread across her face. The boy started to flee, a mixture of a run and limp due to his scrapped up leg.

She started running after him swinging the board above her head, "Come back here! I'll make your out-ers turn in-ers!"

She broke out into giggles that developed into hysterical laughter. She was having fun tonight! And, with how the nights in Gotham were, that could last for a while...

* * *

The number of police in the hospital could be called staggering and most likely cause Jim Gordon to blush..if he were conscious.

When he was found, the scene would later be described by some as "horrific" or "gruesome" or "like some sort of ritual killing!" Blood was everywhere and Jim Gordon had barely made it to the hospital in time.

His injuries themselves weren't especially fatal, but they had been left untreated for so long that he had nearly died of blood loss alone.

When all the damage was assessed, it was quite a collection of wounds and scars the Commissioner would have: he had five bullet wounds (one in the shoulder, one in the thigh, one right above the lung, one just missing the stomach, and one in the left arm), two deep cuts in both thighs, stab wounds in both hands and a long, deep gash from his right temple to the middle of his forehead.

He had remained unconscious through the whole time he was rescued and placed in surgery. He had remained unresponsive in most aspects which led the doctors to believe he was in a coma. They couldn't help but wonder about the possible mental state he might be in if and when he finally did wake up.

It had already been made clear to the police (through the 911 call that led them to Gordon) that his family, who had moved outside of Gotham, had been killed. The police in that area had found the wife's body - but the children's bodies were nowhere to be found.

It was Gordon's new partner (after detective Ramirez was arrested for conspiring with the Joker) that let all the other officers know what was going on with their Commissioner.

She also made sure to keep the media at bay by telling the other officers to keep them away from his wing at the hospital.

Lieutenant Linda Drake sighed as she stepped out of the elevator, feeling extra weight on her shoulders with every step she took. She nodded to the three officers watching the hallway where Gordon's room was located.

Already a team was back at his house searching every inch for a clue, finger print, anything. The same was being done at where they found his wife's mutilated body.

There was even a team studying the phone call, trying to analyze the voice and see if any vocal patterns matched any of the criminals that might have vendettas against Gordon. She felt sorry for that team - they weren't going to be getting any sleep for a while with all the people they had to look up.

As she continued on her way to his room, she turned over all the information they had been able to gather in a few hours: no one had seen anything strange - just Gordon coming home earlier (which was a rare occasion). The neighbors just commented that they had never known Jim to play music so loudly, though.

All this loyalty toward the Commissioner was incredible to see in action but expected. He was the _Commissioner of the Gotham Police_, that kind of position demanded loyalty and respect.

Yet, all that loyalty didn't really come without a price and Linda _knew_ it. She knew they were only being this way because he had publicly declared Batman enemy No. 1.

She also knew it had broke his heart to do so...She knew what it looked like in the eyes. She saw it every time she looked in the mirror.

It hadn't been too long ago that she had been here in this same hospital; she had been put here after being targeted by the Joker for being with Harvey Dent.

She had made him vulnerable and, in the end, played a part in his downfall...once again loosing someone she had let get close.

He was dead. He had killed people. He had given in to all the rage and hatred he had buried deep inside, underneath his almost desperate, yet sincere, desire to make Gotham a better place.

'_He always was such an idealist_,' she thought ruefully.

And now Gordon had lost his knight, too. Her 'White Knight' and his 'Dark Knight.'

She knew he hadn't seen or heard from him for over a month...

Linda heaved another sigh as she entered Gordon's room (she assigned herself to guard him in his room - no one was going to catch her off guard!), but she wasn't expecting the Dark Knight's return anytime soon (even the great Bruce Wayne had disappeared off the radar, the story being he was on vacation)...so it was quite a shock to walk into Gordon's room with the Batman himself by the Commissioner's side.

She gasped and almost jumped back but quickly recovered, "Where the hell have you been!? What - what are you doing here!?" she got out after she had closed the door, preventing anyone outside from hearing.

She was using an extensive amount of control to keep the volume of her voice low as she got closer to him, "Do you realize how many cops are in this building alone!?"

"Obviously not enough to spot me," came the guttural reply. His eyes just as angry as hers. He hadn't moved the gloved hand that was near Gordon's wrapped one.

"Too bad you didn't use that kind of finesse and timing to be at Gordon's house when he needed you," hands balling into fists at her side, her anger rising the longer she looked at him.

He narrowed his eyes and she could almost hear a deeper sound coming from him, like an enraged beast getting ready to pounce.

But she only got closer, "Do you realize how many of them are actually considering that **you** did it to him out of some kind of twisted vengeance?"

"You **know** that isn't true!" his teeth were clenched.

"Yeah, I do. But I also know that this man right here," pointing to Gordon's prone, bandaged form lying in the bed, "deserves a helluva lot better than some adrenaline-junky playboy vigilante up and leaving him alone! You claimed to care about him and yet you just leave him to face it all alone!" She stepped back, breathing hard at the effort it took for her to not yell.

She moved away from him to the other side of the bed and sat down in the chair placed there. Jim was so still, so quiet. Only the rising and falling of his chest let them know he was still alive.

The room became quite, the only noise was from the machines that he was hooked up to, their beeping constant.

"I thought you didn't _approve_ of us," he was trying to keep himself in control of his anger.

"Well he got divorced and now Barbara is dead so it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"

She knew it was Barbara who had asked for the divorce but she was too mad to be "fair" about it. She had to bite down on her knuckles, hard. She had to calm down.

Ever since she was a child this compulsion helped her from saying anything that she wouldn't be able to take back once it had been said. But these emotions were overwhelming her. They had been ever since she got the call about Jim.

But then she had been trying to deal with Harvey's death, Batman's absence and Bruce's continuing deception of Jim all in the past month after she had recovered from being nearly killed herself. And then all of this happened...

'_This shit sucks_,' she thought bitterly. How inadequate words really were for her right now...

'_Harvey was always so good with words_.'

Tears began to sting behind her eyelids. She opened her eyes and looked over at Gordon.

'_Jim_.'

It was bad enough she had watched a man she admired so much for his passion, virtue and determination slip slowly into a listless sort of existence and now he had been tortured by some psycho who liked cycodelic music.

She felt the anger rise again, she bit down on her knuckles harder.

She was angry at Bruce for basically leaving Jim, even if it was meant to be done for altruistic reasons and to keep Harvey's reputation clean. A part of her didn't care what the reason was. Jim deserved better than that.

But then, she did feel some resentment toward him about Harvey. She wanted to blame someone, but there wasn't anyone to really blame. By the time they had stabilized Linda in a hospital, Harvey was already dead and a murderer. Driven out on a rampage by the Joker feeding him lies that she was dead. She could blame the Joker all she wanted, she could blame Batman for getting him involved in it all - but, either way, what difference would it really make?

She knew it was all working against them the moment he asked her to marry him.

In truth, she hadn't really dealt with the fact he was gone. The truth was...she didn't really want to deal with it.

_Harvey would always say to Linda, "You can't keep running away from something you don't like. You got to confront it head-on. And," he would wink and pull out his "lucky" coin, "make a little of your own luck while you're at it."_

That damn coin.

Damn smile.

Damn him.

She swallowed the tears and sobs building up in her throat and took a few deep breaths as she forced herself to keep looking at Jim. He needed her to be strong right now.

He also needed her to not be a bitch to the man he cared about.

She knew she should apologize (her pride be damned), Gordon would kick her ass for talking to him this way. She cleared her throat, "Look, I'm - "

"You're right. He does deserve better," a hint of Bruce's voice coming through.

She was too shocked to realize he was leaving through the window. Bruce hardly ever admitted to being wrong, let alone Batman. "Wait; where are you going!?"

"To do what he deserves me to do for him," and he was gone.

"I - wait!" she had jumped from the chair to catch him. By the time she got to the window and looked out he was gone - nothing but buildings, street lights, cars, and darkness. No sign of him even being in the room.

The cool night air hit her face and tears sprung to her eyes again, but she continued to blink them away.

"I never wanted it to be this way," she whispered to the darkness. She had been thinking this for days and days but had never said it out loud. Until now.

She closed the window and made her way back to the chair beside the Commissioner. She took his other hand gently in both of her hands, minding the bandages around the stab wound. She had always looked up to Jim, even coming to love him as a father-like figure.

To her, he seemed invincible, especially after he had "come back to life".

To see him like this...was too much.

She leaned forward, elbows on the bed, getting ready for a long night. As a red strand of hair fell into her face from her ponytail, she let one tear fall. Only one.

'_I never wanted your happiness to be lost at the expense of mine._'

* * *

On another side of Gotham, in a business building closed for the night, a different kind of battle was being "fought."

With puzzles.

One man was confined to a chair, both legs tied to the chair, his hands cuffed. But, while he still had partial use of his arms, he was as good as paralyzed.

Another man sat across from him composed, almost relaxed. He was dressed in a black tailored suit with a deep green shirt underneath with an even darker green tie. He had on a black bowler hat (concealing his blonde hair), black aviator glasses (concealing his blue eyes), and a gloved hand maintaining a firm grip on the cane at his side. A gold owl was perched on the top as a polished handle. The man had one leg elegantly crossed over the other. What was seen of his face was expressionless.

A table was between them, littered with a variety of brain teasers and puzzles. Many attempted and obviously failed in being successfully completed.

The man with the cane raised it onto the table and, with one swift movement, swiped the attempted puzzles to the floor - some breaking, others landing loudly, the noise echoing in the large room. He twirled the cane once before placing it by his side again.

All that remained was one cube-shaped puzzle and a sand-timer. The room was lit only by the city lights outside the vast stretch of windows beside them.

"I don't know what the hell you want from me but," his body was slightly shaking, "I have done all I can - I mean, these puzzles are made for geniuses! I'm not one! So how can you just expect me to solve these completely pointless...!" He slammed his fists on the table, his anger and embarrassment rising as he was at a loss for words to describe how absurd this all was. How insane and sadistic - especially when the man across from him didn't show any sort of reaction to his outburst. He just sat there, staring back at him.

The man got so frustrated he grabbed the remaining puzzle and threw it at the other man who caught it with ease in one gloved hand.

"Answer me!"

A smile, small and unnerving to the other man, appeared on the gloved man's face. The answer that did come was laced with the other man's posh accent.

"If you are not a genius then why do you proclaim to be one? Surely someone who calls themselves the "Cluemaster" would at the very least have a commendable I.Q. . But, as you have demonstrated to me so far," he indicated the broken puzzles on the floor with his cane, "you don't even have that."

"Tsk, tsk," he started to shake his head while taking the block apart, throwing each piece back on the table one by one.

"The name? It's just a name! Not meant to do anything but grab attention! Look at the others: Batman, Scarecrow, Joker - they are names people talk about!"

"**But**," he paused from taking the square apart as he held up a finger, "they **are **what they are **named**. They don't just call themselves a random name as **you** assume - their names mean something and they give life to that meaning. Not just in how they look but in what they do and how they do it." He continued breaking the block apart and threw the last piece hard enough on the table for it to bounce into the other man's lap.

The man in black continued, "If there is anything I hate in this world it is fools calling themselves intelligent. At least idiots aren't aware of their shortcomings. Fools, like you, **know** you are stupid and yet have the audacity to claim you are better and deserve better - but without **proving **you are deserving of that title. **Proving** that you are intelligent and thus not blatantly lying."

The other man was reaching his limit, "I don't understand what you want from me! I admitted I'm not a genius! I've done your little games! What more do you want from me - why can't you just let me go?!"

The man in black smiled again, "I want you to make that a solid cube again. You have two minutes. Last chance - then you can take your leave." He turned the sand-timer over and the sand at the top started sifting though to the bottom.

"Come on! I can't do that in two minutes! Please, let me go!," he was not above begging at this point.

"I've completed it in forty seconds. Tick tock, tick tock, mind the clock."

The man frantically tried to piece the cube together, but only managed to complete the bottom portion by the time all of the sand was at the bottom of the timer.

"Time's up." He smashed the timer with his cane as he rose from his chair. He then lifted the table with one arm and threw it to the side, letting it crash to the floor. If there was any anger in his actions it was controlled and precise. He came closer to the other man, twirling his cane. "You failed yet again."

"But you - you said I could leave...You did! I heard you!"

"I lied. Just like you did with that ridiculous name. Makes you angry, doesn't it?"

"You pompous English dandy prick!" the man made a move to grab the other but he was struck hard across the head with the cane. The pain bursting from his temple and all down his left side. The cane resumed its twirling motion.

"The only thing I hate more than stupidity is ignorance. And your kind of people fill this world to the brim and I despise you all for doing that. You offer nothing to this world, to this society - all you do is take away. You take food, money, jobs, homes, and medicine away from people who give so much more than you do...who deserve the benefits of life more than you do. You are ignorant of others in this world and ignorant of how pointless **your** existence is in comparison to those who offer **SO MUCH MORE**. Thus," he stopped twirling the cane, letting the end snap loudly against the floor, echoing, "you are expendable."

He made the cane tilt downward, a long blade unsheathing from inside and, in one fluid motion, pulled it out and drove the blade through the man's neck.

The shock on the man's face was apparent and stayed there even as the other man pushed the chair back, letting the flesh slide off the blade. The blood continued to gush and spurt as he hit the floor and his hands went to his throat in a futile attempt to stop the blood.

"You seem confused - why? Life is full of riddles, puzzles and dead ends. You should have known that by now. What ever prevented you from learning from your mistakes?"

* * *

Jonathan Crane marveled at how effective a shaved head could be in altering one's appearance.

People had known him - the famous Doctor Crane of Arkham Asylum - had seen him in papers and on television. He took away the hair, glasses, and suit and no one gave him a second glance. In a way, shedding so much all at once had the potential to be cathartic...Almost. Crane was more concerned with being unrecognizable than indulging in emotional releases. He was now just another pale faced punk who roamed the streets of Gotham.

Ever since Batman's public exile happened, more and more people wandered the streets at night. There was only so much the police could do without their rodent-obsessed vigilante.

But was Crane really any better with his scarecrow fashion? He smirked to himself, maybe he was as crazy as everyone said he was, as they continue to say he is. But then, so is the Batman...and everyone else in Gotham, in this serious, serious world...

He was staring at himself in the fish-eyed mirror that most convenience stores have in the corner of the shop (mainly to watch out for shop-lifters, a job reinforced with cameras). He **did** look drastically different with so little hair on his head, dark circles under his eyes, and his face pale and drawn. His clothes were baggy and the farthest thing from a two hundred dollar suit as one could get: a dirty, dark blue hoodie, torn jeans and a pair of red converse shoes. The only thing he recognized out of this reflection was his bright blue eyes (almost too blue). Like a clear blue sky...against a field he remembers...and crows.

His grandmother had _hated_ his eyes. Said they were the "work of the devil." Jonathan had always thought _she _was the work of the devil. Still did.

If the "devil" really existed as an external force that is...

But as he really looked at himself, his warped and deformed reflection, it only confirmed what he had always thought. That -

"Hey, you! You gonna pay for that!?" the owner called out from behind the cash-and-wrap, interrupting his thoughts.

Crane took a deep breath to calm his rising irritation - he wasn't going to have his cover blown by some degenerate in a convenience store.

He took another deep breath as he turned and went up the front of the store. He placed his items on the counter; he had been holding them for so long if felt weird to have the weight out of his hands.

Pepperoni Combos: 1.89

Junior Mints: 0.99

Bottle of water: 1.29

Having to pay that much for water: ridiculous.

Jonathan gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes, immediately irritated with himself for remembering and using that asinine joke from a damn credit card commercial.

But due to his shortage of funds (and hallucinogens), he wasn't able to get or do very much. Many of his older customers weren't interested anymore and at the moment he was just trying to stay out of Arkham.

He snorted, '_That's a first_.'

The clerk looked at him, getting defensive, "What?"

Crane, oblivious to much around him these days as he was buried in his webbed-thoughts, didn't answer. He just looked at the total price on the screen and left his money on the counter after grabbing the bag with his food and over-priced water.

The owner mumbled "weirdo" as he went, but Crane heard him and stopped.

He didn't know why but he felt his irritation flare up again. It wasn't as if it was the first time he had been called a name - he had been called several names, many of them far worse than "weirdo". But he just...it had been so long since he had...indulged...

Oh yes, he wanted to pick and poke. To make this man squirm and analyze why he squirmed so. He always had been curious boy.

He walked backwards and turned to face the clerk, who slightly flinched at him returning so suddenly.

"Why do you think I am a "weirdo"?" his voice calm and "the doctor" starting to come out.

"What? I never said that."

"Yes, you did. I heard you as I was leaving. You thought just because you mumbled it I wouldn't hear it."

He just blinked at Crane, color rising in his face. He knew he had been called out for his bluff, but he still tried to side step it.

"Look, I don't want any trouble, ok? You paid and got your stuff, so maybe you should just...you know...leave."

And "the doctor" is in.

"I know you are lying to me - not only from the color in your face but also from the fact that you are trying to side step my accusation while simultaneously making it out to be my fault, that I am instigating trouble. Thus justifying, in your mind, reaching down to press the security button behind the counter."

The man's finger paused right above the button. Crane's eyes were starting to unnerve him, his quiet but confident words made his body freeze up a bit.

Jonathan laughed a little, "Why is it people will do everything in their power to not apologize, even going so far as to place the blame on someone else, or admit they did something wrong? Is it pride? No, it goes a bit deeper than that, doesn't it?" his eyes remained on the other man.

"The compulsive, almost necessity, to lie in order to protect ourselves from potential danger only serves to bury us deeper in imaginary circumstances. How can one ever expect to deal with someone who won't buy into the lie? Who will call the bluff and push back and get angry at having been assumed they were that stupid..."

Crane leaned in closer to him, "Or is that the prospect that scares you the most? If so, all you do by lying is feeding that fear that has now locked up your body and making your mind panic with what you can do or say to back-peddle your way out of this most unpleasant situation..."

The door to the store opened and a young woman came in, "Look, I know I'm late for work -"

Crane stared at her while she stopped where she was at the door.

He broke the stare and looked back at the owner, "There's one lucky solution for you." Then, he walked out of the store, past the woman still standing there, perplexed at walking in on what must have been a very tense situation.

One thing she did know was how his eyes had been as blue as a clear sky...

* * *

As Harley ate her sub (that she had been a good girl and paid for - with money she had stolen), she realized that getting the Batman's attention was harder than she thought.

She had left a slew of dead bodies, damaged property, and injured civilians all over Gotham and...**nothing**.

But then people were always showing up dead and injured all over Gotham...on a daily basis.

She came to a stop on the sidewalk she had been walking along as realization dawned on her and how she had done nothing "special" in comparison to regular happenings in Gotham City.

She clenched her teeth as her anger rose, "Goddammit!" She was ready to slam the food she had been eating into the sidewalk.

"Hey!" a voice came from beside her, "if you don't want it, can I have it?"

She paused, the partially eaten sub raised in the air, looking to the side near the opening of a cramped alley. There was a man sitting on cardboard dressed in mismatched clothes.

His face was thinner than hers, his beard long, dirty and mangy. His eyes were wide and hopeful, almost watering as he stared unblinking at the food.

Slowly, Harley moved closer to him, her eyes studying him and how his eyes followed the sub no matter where it went.

"Aren't you afraid of me?"

The first time his eyes met hers since she saw him, "I fought in two wars and was a prisoner of war in the last one; why would I be afraid of you?" he wasn't being smug, just honest.

"Why should I believe a word you say? After all, so many homeless bums today lose their homes and money because they lie, cheat, and drink it all away. For all I know you could be exactly that," a smile was curving her lips. It didn't reach her eyes.

The man was silent for a few moments and then let out a tired laugh, full of bitterness, "I was too honest, actually. Tried to earn money the honest way by working. I got sick one day and ended up in the hospital, I didn't have anybody to take care of me. I ended up losing my job, got behind on the bills and hospital bills. Before I knew it, I was out here on the streets. And even being a war veteran didn't help my luck - they said I was "too old." I tried to get the legal system to take my case but no one would take it - especially if I couldn't pay! The legal system has always been pretty shitty here, you know what I mean?"

Her face showed no emotion, didn't blink, "I know."

He heaved a deep sigh, "I'm just...so damn hungry...all the time. I know I'm gonna die soon, I just wanna die with a full stomach."

Harley laughed, "Why? So you can crap yourself silly as you die? What a stupid thing to want!"

He seemed more hurt than mad at her mocking him, "Never mind. I can go another night on an empty stomach. Not like I haven't before." He moved to lay down on his "bed" - the cardboard square he was sitting on and a bag of trash as his pillow.

But Harley stepped closer to the man and put the food right in front of his face, "Take it. Go on - you want it, right?"

The man didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed it out of her gloved hand and ate it with such gratitude and vigor, it was obvious he hadn't had anything for quite a while.

"Thank you - thank you," he said between mouthfuls.

"Think of me as an _angel of mercy_," she turned around briefly and returned to facing him, one arm subtly behind her back. The man was so engrossed in his meal he didn't notice the movement.

She watched him eat while slowly taking steps till she was leaning against the wall behind him. When he finished, his eyes were closed with an almost euphoric expression on his face.

"Oh, God bless you. I am so full."

Then, she shot him in the back of the head.

Quick, painless.

His body fell forward with a "thud" that should have been louder. He must have been very thin under all those layers of clothes...

"And now you will never be hungry again," she remarked, lowering her gun slowly.

Before she left the body, she made sure he was laying on his back, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest...as if he was sleeping.

"For it is all a dream..._'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream._'"

It then hit her that the reason the Batman wasn't around was because of Gordon...She had seen the Bat out on the streets here and there but the complete scarcity tonight of all nights could only mean one thing...

"I think I have hit the heart..."

* * *


	3. Chapter 2 Violent Hill

**Hearts of Darkness**

Chapter Two - Violent Hill

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of fictional characters that do not belong to me.

* * *

As rain beat against the glass to the penthouse, Alfred wondered how many times he had done this - stood, waiting patiently for Master Wayne to return home. Calm on the surface, but inside he kept forcing himself to breath slow, deep breaths.

One would think he would have been used to this by now.

But he wasn't. He never would be. He knew back when Master Bruce was but a squirming, food-projecting imp he would never be able to stop worrying about him, especially when he put himself in harms way willingly.

Alfred let out another sigh (he had lost track of how many times he had done that this night alone).

After seeing the news on the television about what had happened to Commissioner Gordon, Bruce had been frozen to the chair where he had sat, the color draining out of him. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Alfred had gently touched his shoulder, not sure if Master Bruce would react violently at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts or not react at all. The latter was the one that always worried Alfred. He had jumped, looked at Alfred and then bolted out of the door without a word. The look in his eyes had been...disturbing. Alfred had seen that look before but it had never frightened him, he knew better than that.

He knew that for all his faults, and Master Bruce had them (he was not an "immaculate" being by any means), he was a good man. A brave man - if but a bit foolhardy at times.

If anything, his heart was too loving, too giving. To this city, to its people. Looking out on Gotham as the rain continued to pour, lightening flashing occasionally, Alfred came to that conclusion.

This city, its people, would break him if he let it.

He was already too emotionally invested in it because of the fate that befell his parents. Even though he told Alfred time and again it wasn't vengeance, both of them knew that that was the reason behind it. It had always been a driving force in the young man's life ever since it happened (for better or worse).

It was a blow to the heart that had never healed - would never heal.

Master Bruce was smart and could detach himself from most of what he did as the Batman; it was a symbol, it was not him. There were times when Alfred thought it was his fears, anger and mourning personified - that this was the only way to make meaning of it all. To make his parent's deaths mean something...

But sometimes, Alfred wondered just how much he could continue to detach himself from what happened to people. More to the point, the people he cared for and held close, even if they didn't know it. Whether as Batman or Bruce, the pain was felt and it was relentless. To both.

He couldn't say he approved of Master Bruce's - or the Batman's - relationship with Jim Gordon. But it wasn't something that was fickle, or an act like with the many "women" Bruce would let hang onto his arms. This was something that Master Bruce and the Bat felt deeply - almost like a connecting thread. A strong, true force that the young man could depend on when so much else seemed intangible.

Alfred dared to say it was love. Whether it was one-sided or mutual, he wasn't sure of.

He knew Gordon was married - used to be - and that he was a loyal man to those he felt deserved it. Master Bruce may have been waging war on the evil that infested Gotham, but Gordon must have been at war with himself continuously. Divided loyalties (and possibly love) between wife and family and the savior of Gotham. The one who had given him hope.

But the last time Alfred had seen the Commissioner, he had looked worn and in some sense defeated...And now this vicious attack...

Now, more than ever, Alfred feared not just for Master Bruce's safety - he feared for his sanity. He feared for his heart.

There were only so many blows both could take. The physical scars always healed with time but these other ones...they were wounds to the young man that would fester and eventually consume him.

If he wasn't completely broken first.

The rain only poured harder. Alfred sighed again - this time trying to ease the weight he felt in his chest. He would come back soon...He would. He always did.

Alfred had to believe that.

He had to. Even if no one else did. Even if Master Bruce didn't. Alfred always would.

Because that is what was needed. That is what he needed; that little child Alfred had comforted on so many nights like tonight.

Alfred would always see Bruce like that - Batman or not. And he hoped that if he had instilled anything in the boy since his birth it was to never give up, to always keep going.

His father had said it best but Alfred still liked to remind him. Because all they really had was each other...

That was why Alfred had been standing there at the window for four hours. And he would stand there for another four hours if he had to, lost in thoughts and memories that never went entirely away.

But all they really did was bring pain of days long past that could never return. For the moment, though, they served to distract Alfred from the pain of the thought of that young man never coming back.

* * *

Mayor Anthony Garcia had hardly had a decent night's rest in weeks. All of the makeup in the world couldn't hide that.

He had made statement after statement assuring the people of Gotham City that all was being done to capture the Batman, that all was being done to catch the other criminals of Gotham and then this attack on Gordon! Hell, even his family, who had moved outside of Gotham, had turned up dead.

As if he didn't have enough on his plate, the cameras had to be there when the police brought out the bullet-riddled body of Gotham's Police Commissioner and it was all over the news in a matter of hours. Now he was getting calls about how several neighborhoods had random dead bodies mutilated in the streets, on top of cars and accounts of a crazed person in black and white make-up. A wanna-be Joker of sorts.

Other scenes of death had had puzzles strewn around them...Heads nearly sliced off...

This couldn't possibly be the work of Batman, could it?

He had rubbed his temples again, he had bruises there for rubbing them countless times in the past few days. It had become second nature.

He was at home now but it felt as if he had never left his office. He was sitting on his bed, in his pajamas and he was still getting calls about Gordon, new "ritual" killings in the streets and eyewitness accounts to the Batman's "new allies".

He almost wanted to pull his hair out but he knew that would only lead to several more phone calls about how his ratings went down even more because he was bald. He put his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes.

The phone beside his bed rang for the - his last count had been fifty-three - time that night. He let out a groan-filled sigh and picked up the receiver, "Yes?" in a voice that made him sound far older than he was.

"Is this Mayor Garcia of Gotham?" the voice sounded mannered, composed. Very different from all the rough, frantic voices he had been hearing all night.

"Yes, it is. May I ask who is calling?"

"You do not know me, sir, but you may be familiar with my name; I am Jeremiah Arkham. My grandfather, Amadeus Arkham, established Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane many years ago in Gotham."

Garcia's eyes widened a little, his heart rate going a little faster, "Yes, I am very familiar with that name..." Oh God, please don't let this be about some massive breakout from Arkham - again! Not now, not now.

"I wanted to apologize for the less than efficient performance the institution has offered thus far. I have not been to the asylum for quite some time and have been away on business here in Europe. I thought I had left it in capable hands but, as you must know by now, that has not been the case. I again apologize for that."

Garcia had been so relieved that this wasn't another crisis that all he could do was respond dumbly as he slowly felt the pressure ease off of his stomach.

"Aw, that's fine."

The voice on the other line sounded a bit affronted that the Mayor seemed to be taking this less seriously than he would have liked, "I can assure you, sir, it is not fine. And I also assure you that once I return to Gotham any lax attitudes about the asylum will be eliminated."

"Oh - I didn't mean to give you that impression, Mr. Arkham, truly. I am very concerned about the state of Arkham Asylum but at the current moment we have quite a few...situations here that require more immediate attention." Garcia tried to smooth feathers he had ruffled.

"Yes, I heard about your Commissioner. And your DA. And about your vigilante with an apparent rodent fetish. And the countless casualties his private war has cost Gotham. And all individuals he has inspired with his rash behavior." The tone was cold enough to almost make Garcia shiver.

"Mayor, when individual citizens gain that much power and are obviously unstable, what do you think that says about those who are suppose to be in charge of the city?"

Mayor Garcia was silent. There was nothing he could say that would justify the foolish decisions he had made.

"It says those who have been entrusted with the life of the city are not doing their job. That this is a city that has become over-run by fear, by insanity. There is no order, there is no faith in order. That is what it says. If you continue down the path you are on, Mayor, Gotham will surely fall into anarchy and it will take something very drastic to bring it back out. And I already think you know what that would mean..."

The weight was back on the Mayor's stomach, almost as if it had never left.

"But not all is lost, which is why I am coming back to Gotham. I will take charge of my grandfather's asylum and make certain that order is brought back to Gotham, even if that means making a few...adjustments to the establishment and even to the law itself. For that is what we want, isn't it Mayor? For order to be restored to Gotham?"

"Y-Yes. It is."

"Good. I shall take that as a sign that I will have your full cooperation when I arrive. Something needs to be done, Mayor, and I can assure you I will bring that about. By any means necessary."

All Garcia could do was nod as the other line hung up. Then he realized he wasn't nodding anymore, he was shaking.

He wondered what the hell he was getting himself into now...

* * *

Hospices were abnormally quite places, especially at night.

But this particular one was quite for more gruesome reasons...

All of the patients were dead - so were any family members who were staying overnight with them.

The machines and monitors had been turned off. The electricity had been cut off . They all generated heat.

So did blood. That was the only heat he cared about seeing.

And he did see it with his infrared goggles. They glowed a bright red color when turned on and were the only tangible bits of light in the darkness of the building.

There were the lights outside but the rain made it darker around the windows. So even they were of no comfort when it came to escaping the darkness. Their flashlights had all gone missing.

The hospice staff had hidden themselves as best they could but he found them. He always found them.

Either one by one or huddled together in a group. They couldn't hide from him for very long.

They tried the exists - all were locked and wouldn't open, even with the keys.

Windows - the security bars remained because without power they couldn't be lifted back up. (No one dare break any glass, it would only lead him to them faster...)

Phoning the police - the lines had been cut.

Cell phones - he always managed to get to them before they could finish the call.

They were going to die. They were trapped in this darkness with no way out. All some could do was scream as they saw the glowing red "eyes" come closer.

One doctor managed to get away with a cell phone. He turned the volume down as he neared a row of windows. He couldn't stop shaking, the sweat pouring down his face. How did he keep finding them? Was he using night vision? Did he know the hospice layout that well?

He was still waiting to get through to the police (ever since Batman was declared an enemy of Gotham the lines were always busy) when two other people ran around the corner. The two nurses were out of breath and whispering feverishly, overlapping each other:

"He's coming!"

"Where is he?!"

"Monster! Goddamn monster!"

"Are the police coming?!"

The doctor held up a finger to quite them when a voice out of the darkness answered the question calmly, "No."

A high pitched electrical whine went off as two red orbs appeared behind the doctor.

The two nurses screamed, the doctor was paralyzed, phone still to his ear.

It all happened so fast...But in the light that came from the outside made the bloodshed horribly real.

The man slashed the back of the doctor's knees with a meat hook, making him fall to the floor with a scream, dropping the phone.

He fired his harpoon gun at the nurse running away. It went right through her chest - the force behind it pushing her body to the far wall. Her body sagged but remained pinned to the wall.

The other nurse tried to go in the opposite direction, but he was too fast.

He turned, switching the meat hook from one hand to the other, the harpoon gun forgotten as it dropped to the floor.

He tore open her stomach, then her throat, silencing her screams. Blood gushed out of her as her body fell to the floor with a wet thud.

Her mouth was still moving but no sound was heard. Her eyes wide with shock and fear - she was dead...dying and she couldn't stop it...

The doctor was frozen on the floor - in pain but he couldn't find his voice. He could barely breathe. The smell of blood was everywhere now. The walls were covered with it. His co-workers' blood covered the once white walls.

He saw the "monster" - the one that had chased them all though the dark...A walking ghost...Or an angel of death...

His skin...it was white, whiter than the walls had been. Almost translucent, the doctor was certain he could see the veins underneath and that it wasn't a trick of light from the rain on the windows.

His head was shaved, random scars along his temple and skull. It seemed as if he had no eyebrows but that was only because his hair had as little pigment as his skin did.

Only his neck and head could be seen - the rest of his body was covered, as were his eyes. Long grey trench coat, black rubber boots and gloves. He were several layers of clothes underneath the coat, including something with a hood.

His eyes were covered with the infrared goggles he had designed - the battery attached to the strap around his head. There were burn marks against his ashen skin.

He didn't seem to mind it, though, as he picked up his harpoon gun and attached it to the belt underneath the trench coat. He started to calmly wipe off the hook, bits of flesh hanging on it.

The goggles still emitted that red, red glow...

"Please...stop this. If it is about your condition...," the doctor pleaded weakly, he knew he was next but if he could just get through to this man...He had paused in cleaning his tool when the word "condition" was said.

"We can help you - we can do...surgery so your...Albinism isn't so severe..."

The man resumed cleaning his hook, although with more swiftness than before. When he was done he said without looking at the doctor, "You think that I am doing this...because of my condition?"

His head turned slowly to look at the doctor on the floor. The doctor was now wishing he hadn't said anything.

He came closer to the doctor, standing over him, the red orbs never leaving the doctor's face, "That would be the most obvious answer, wouldn't it? That would seem the most true because you are all normal and I am not, thus I must hate all normal people and that justifies me killing them out of bitterness. My being different is reason enough. But, I'm sorry to disappoint you....,"

He bent down and grabbed the doctor by the throat and lifted him up using strength that surprised the other man. The doctor couldn't do anything, his arms were heavy as lead at his side, his legs useless with the ligaments torn as they were. All he could do was listen as he kept slowly losing blood.

"I am bitter toward you all, but for a different reason - you can walk out into the sun and people don't stare at you and yet you still criticize the way you look or the way other people do. You are able to walk out into the sun and yet you help no one who needs your help. You are all useless. You are all so self-centered, thinking it is all about you. That it is always about you. But despite that, that is not the reason I am doing this." He let go of the doctor's throat, watching as he dropped to the floor, crying out as his legs became more damaged from the pressure and hitting his head on the floor, nearly splitting it open.

"I want everyone else to be as cold as I am. I feel no warmth", he let out a strained laugh, " I have five layers of clothes on and I am still cold. I am empty. I want others to be that way. They don't deserve warmth if all they can do is think about themselves while they let others die. You don't deserve life if you can't think of other lives, think of helping them when they need it. Not when it is convenient for you, doctor."

"But...but why a hospice?," he couldn't help but ask, people were already dying, this living apparition was nothing more than a hypocrite...

"Because it is nothing but a mockery to those you refused to help in time. You are doing nothing but rubbing it in their faces that they are dying and that "there was no way" to save them. It's disgusting".

He brought the hook closer to the doctor's face, as he crouched down beside him, "And, it's too much like a hospital; hospitals have never helped me - they have never been of any real use...I mean, if they can't help someone like me how can they possibly help someone who is like you with any real competence? Someone is either not doing their job or the whole system has failed...I choose to blame the system...and all the people associated with it."

He put the end of the hook into one of the doctor's nostrils, "The Egyptians used to use hooks to pick out the brain - piece by piece...," The doctor tried to calm his shaking but couldn't. "Oh, God...," he whimpered, tears unwillingly filling his eyes. He didn't want it to end this way.

"But I'm not going to do that to you," he moved the hook away from the other man's face.

"I will do this instead," he shoved the hook into the other man's naval and opened him up to his chest plate.

The screams echoed. They fell on deaf and dead ears.

The blood burst forth from some arteries while most of it just flowed out to the floor, pooling around the man still crouched down near the doctor.

He leaned in closer to the doctor's ear while the other man went into shock and whispered, "How does it feel to have the blood leave you this way? Do you feel cold as the heat pours out of you? Do you feel emptiness creeping up as your soul slips out of your body? This way of dying...so long and drawn out...You feel the cold setting in, you know your life is going to be over, that you will be able to not feel anything anymore..."

He stood up, still looking down at the doctor, no longer shaking.

"If only I was so fortunate."

As he left the hospice - after turning the lights back on so whoever comes by later will see **exactly** why it's so quite - he turned off his goggles and pulled them off after pulling his hood over his head. He hated the rain but at least it would clean the meat hook he was still carrying.

His eyes were pink, almost bordering on red if there was little to no light around him.

He squinted as his sensitive eyes took in the city around him - lightening flashed overhead.

"Gotham is a soulless city. It deserves to be cold. It deserves to die."

* * *


End file.
